


Pit of Vipers

by ineswrites



Series: Hydra Trash Meme fills [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hydra Won (Marvel), Anal Fingering, Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bleeding Out, Bone Crushing, Butt Plugs, Captivity, Chronic Pain, Collars, Creampie, Dammit Westfahl, Death Threats, Drugs, Embarrassment, Face-Fucking, Facial, Forced Feminization, Frottage, Fuck Bench, Fuck Or Die, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Gore, HYDRA Trash Party, Hand Feeding, M/M, No Lube, Oral Sex, Pet Play, Piercings, Public Use, Sloppy Seconds, Slurs, Spit As Lube, Spitroasting, Starvation, Strangling, Threats of Violence, Torture, Vomit, Wetting, Wound Fucking, backhand slap, piss drinking, ruined orgasm, shameful boner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-05-29 15:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Rumlow was taken by his coworkers and made into their personal sextoy. Of course it's only good hospitality to let the captive Captain America take a turn with him, right? Not that they give him a choice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt.](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2807.html?thread=6577911#cmt6577911)

Brock’s woken up by a bucket of water being dumped on his naked body.

As far as his wake-up calls go these days, this one isn’t the worst. Would’ve been better if he wasn’t aching so badly that it makes him wish he could just strip himself of his own flesh and bones. He curls in on himself in the dog crate he’s now living in, every joint and muscle protesting at the slightest movement. The pain centers in his right side, the one he’s been sleeping on. He’s way too old to be lying on the crate’s metal floor for so long.

He watches as Rosenberg unlocks the door. They invested in a heavy duty crate after Brock broke himself out of the cheap, plastic one they kept him in before. He tipped it over and kicked at the bottom until it broke. This one he could kick for eternity and he wouldn’t get out.

He cries out when they grab him by the shoulders and unfold, then forcefully drag outside, the tender skin on his back catching on the threshold.

“Shut up,” Rosenberg barks at him.

“Or we’ll do it for ya,” Guldbrandsen adds.

Brock grits his teeth and lets himself be dragged down the corridor. He’s lost the track of time since he was kidnapped and made Hydra’s sex slave, but he knows there was a time, not so long ago even, when he was ashamed of obeying. He doesn’t feel much of anything now as the agents chuckle at him. He’s always been more pragmatic than honorable, and there really isn’t a good reason to suffer more for showing them he hasn’t broken yet.

Yeah, it’s better if they don’t know he hasn’t. Let them think he’s given in, that he’s harmless and can be left unattended. 

Gone are also the times of him wondering what they planned for him this time. It’s usually either a gangbang or a one-on-one, and honestly, he doesn’t have a preference for one or the other. They both hurt, they’re both humiliating, and they both can be just as long. In the past, there was also a third option: body modification procedures. While different in nature from the other two, Brock hated them all the same.

He realizes they’re taking him to the showers right before he’s shoved inside and pushed onto the gray tiles. He props himself up on his hands and knees while Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen take a shower head each. He’s getting proper washing today, and that can mean only one thing: Rollins requested him.

Despite all this time, it’s still hard to believe Jack Rollins took over Hydra when Brock stops and thinks about it. Rollins was never special. During his time in STRIKE, he was a quiet, not very social guy who was maybe a good sharpshooter and tactician, but that was it. He wasn’t a good fighter, nor did Brock ever notice him having any leadership skills. He also knew Rollins had that weird, creepy thing for him, but despite that, he thought of him as rather harmless. Rollins could never beat him when they sparred, and he was too shy—or perhaps too worried about keeping his job—to try something sketchy.

But somehow he managed to convince the majority of the Washington Hydra cell to follow him, and Brock never saw it coming. They were preparing to launch Insight, and the next thing he knew, Pierce was dead by Rollins’ hand, and he himself was restrained by his teammates, a shock after a shock to the ribs from their stun batons keeping him from fighting back.

A stream of water hitting his face brings him back to reality. He opens his mouth to wet his dry tongue and chapped lips. The water tastes sweet, and he doesn’t realize how thirsty he is until he swallows some of it. He’s gotten good at tuning out the majority of his body’s complaints, the ever-present pain usually overtaking, though some of it has also become a background static. If he focused, he’d feel the dull ache deep inside him, or how his stomach is clenching from hunger. He’d realize his throat is burning, his neck tender, and his swollen pectorals ache. Instead, he’s focusing on the high pressure of water hitting him, how good it feels on his tired muscles, how refreshing it is after hours—days?—of being covered in sweat, spit and cum. He’s almost sorry when it ends and he’s being pulled up to his feet.

Rosenberg presents a choke collar to him, and Brock silently lets him push it over his head. He’s intimately familiar with the thing; these bastards always use it to walk him around. Since it’s one of the least painful things he’s being put through these days, and they let him walk on his feet instead of forcing him to crawl, he’s past the point of complaining.

He’s escorted to Rollins’ quarters. As always, Rollins is not yet inside. Despite everything Rollins always does to him, Brock actually likes being here. The thick carpet is plush under his bare feet and makes it easier to kneel than the concrete floor. He gets to lie on Rollins’ king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress. The sheets are soft to the touch. There’s a jug of water standing on the nightstand he can help himself to, provided his hands are free and no one’s watching.

He’s pushed onto the bed, the collar is pulled over his head, scratching his face, and his arms are wrenched back. He knows what it means even before he sees Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen reach for their handcuffs.

“Don’t!” he says quickly, then adds, “Please.” He looks into Rosenberg’s face, making sure not to eye the jug that’s just a stretch of his arm away. “He won’t be happy if I soil his bed again.”

Rosenberg exchanges looks with his friend. He shrugs, and Brock’s arms are released. They exit the room and lock it behind.

Brock sighs in relief and stretches on the bed. It makes him wince, but at least this time he’s the one controlling his pain. After a moment of straight up resting, he pulls himself up and walks to the adjoined bathroom.

There are no windows, of course. It’s not uncommon for bathrooms, but given the fact Brock hasn’t seen a window for months makes him believe they’re actually underground. It makes his escape more difficult to plan, because with no windows, there may be only a couple certain ways out, and Brock knows none. That, and they’re surely heavily guarded. For now, he’s not going anywhere, and they know it. He bets Rosenberg and Guldbrandsen locked him in here only to avoid the hassle of chasing him down the corridors. They’re not really worried he might escape.

And hell, that sucks.

With that depressive thought, he relieves himself like an actual human being for once, then washes his hands and looks up in the mirror. For the first second, he doesn’t recognize himself. It’s not that he’s changed that much; rather, he hasn’t seen himself for so long he forgot what he looked like.

But the changes are there, too. He’s thinner now, his cheeks sunken. He’s being shaven regularly, but no one ever cuts his hair. It’s now long enough to be tied into pigtails, which they obviously do. They call them ‘love handles’. Right now, the wet strands fall chaotically around his face. He combs them back with his fingers.

All that doesn’t bother him as much as the piercings. He remembers each time he was held down and pierced—it was early enough for him to still try and fight back—but this is the first time he has an opportunity to see what he looks like with all that metal in his face. The answer is: not good, and to this day he wonders why the hell it was done to him. He sticks out his tongue, covering the vertical labret in his lower lip to scrutinize the piercing there. Those two are the ones he can never forget about, because he always feels them. He hates the former, but he kind of tolerates the latter; he’s decided that, should he become desperate enough, he’ll choke to death on it. He has two in his eyebrows and another two in his ears that he’s happy to cover with his hair and pretend they don’t exist. The one in his ear was actually the first one; something about it being gay, he’s not sure—all the mocking has faded to a buzz in his memories. Brock supposes it just escalated from there. His nose is surprisingly untouched, though the guys threatened they would give him a cow ring and attach a leash to it.

He pulls away from the mirror and looks down at his naked body. He’s lost a lot of muscle mass. His stomach looks sunken; when was the last time he was fed something other than cum? The moment he focuses on it, it rumbles loudly. Perfect. He fingers the piercing in his navel for a short moment, the one he always plays with when he’s bored out of his mind or trying to focus on something else than the pain he’s in. His nipples are also pierced, but they always hurt too much to touch. He knows he also has one—or maybe two?—in his ass crack, but he neither knows nor wants to know what it looks like.

He returns to the bedroom and curls up on the sheets. They’re not exactly fresh, but it’s a major upgrade from the dog crate, and Brock’s dozing off before he knows it. His sleep is light though, and he wakes up as soon as he hears the door open.

He groggily props himself up on his elbows and sees Rollins approaching him. He’s smiling, but he looks tired; the sudden upgrade from a henchman to a head of a Hydra cell is taking its toll on him. Not that Brock feels sorry for him; he can work himself to death for all he cares.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Brock doesn’t come up with anything good to say to that, so he just forces himself to smile back. Lately, Rollins has been acting like Brock is here because he wants to, and it’s easier—and perhaps smarter—to just play along. Who knows, maybe one day Rollins starts trusting him, giving Brock a chance to get the hell out of here.

Rollins kneels on the bed in front of him, grabs his hair and pulls him in for a kiss. He’s the only one to ever do that, and Brock’s sure that in his mind, he’s pretending they’re lovers or some shit. Maybe he imagines Brock’s his dutiful wife that waits naked in their bed for her husband to come home from work. It’s creepy as all hell and keeps Brock guessing at what’s about to happen. It’s not that tricky with the others; they’re driven by titillation, they just wanna fuck something that can’t fight back. Brock isn’t a stranger to the concept. But Rollins? He actually acts like he’s in love with Brock or something, holy shit.

The kiss isn’t nice. It’s wet, and sloppy, and Rollins’ tongue is pushing his spit inside Brock’s dry mouth. It’s absolutely gross and reminds him he didn’t have that drink of water after all. Maybe Rollins will let him get some later if he’s good. 

Rollins’ mouth is on his throat next, and Brock looks past the top of his head at the wall, his mind already getting ready to dissociate. He hears the buckle of Rollins’ belt, and he doesn’t need to look down to confirm that he’s shoving his pants down to his knees. No matter how affectionate Rollins might act sometimes, this is still only about sex. Rollins doesn’t request him here to hang out.

Rollins straightens up, pulling Brock’s head down towards his half-hard cock at the same time. If Brock cared, he’d wonder why he’s not as turned on as usual. As it is, he just acknowledges that fact and doesn’t dwell on it.

Rollins presses at his jaw joints; gently, just to let him know what he wants, but it still hurts, the pain flaring up to his cheekbones, and Brock opens his mouth as wide as he can, wanting him to just let go. He didn’t notice it earlier in the mirror, but it feels like his cheek is bruised, and maybe it is, with how often his face is shoved against something hard and unyielding. Thankfully, Rollins’ fingers stop pressing, but his hand rests on his jaw as he pushes his cock inside his mouth. This time there’s nothing gentle about it; it’s a quick shove, and the head goes easily past Brock’s throat. Rollins’ breath hitches, and Brock’s positive it has everything to do with the piercing in his tongue now teasing the underside of his shaft. If he were to guess, he’d say it was Rollins’ idea.

Rollins keeps his head in place as he fucks his face, his cock swelling gradually, the head pushing farther and farther down Brock’s throat. Brock’s view becomes hazy, and he focuses solely at keeping his teeth away and breathing through his nose. His habit of dissociating is so strong now it’s actually more difficult to stay focused on what’s happening, so he lets himself get lost in his mind. Sometime later, he snaps back to awareness just to realize it’s still happening, with the difference being his jaw is now aching and eyes leaking from the strain, and the hitches in Rollins’ breath have turned into grunts. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he thinks it’s taking longer than usual, and a moment later he’s spacing out again. He doesn’t even register when Rollins’ hips buck and he cums down his throat until his pulling out, and with nothing holding Brock up, he slumps onto the mattress. His saliva tastes of sex when he swallows, and his eyes flick to the jug sitting on the nightstand.

Rollins stands up and walks away towards the closet to change into something comfortable. Brock watches him just out of the corner of his eye, his full focus blatantly set on the jug. He wants it. He earned it. What would happen if he just took it? Would Rollins punish him for it?

Slowly but deliberately, he pushes himself up to his knees and hands, then eases himself back against the pillows. He lifts the jug and almost grunts—it’s heavier than he expected—then fills a glass. At the sound of the pouring water, Rollins turns to look at him, and Brock freezes, the jug almost falling out of his hand. He manages to keep a firm hold of it and carefully puts it back down, his eyes fixed on Rollins. His pulse kicks up when Rollins approaches him, and when he reaches out, Brock flinches. Rollins freezes.

Then, slowly and somewhat awkwardly, Rollins slips his long fingers between the still damp strands on Brock’s head. He rubs his scalp as Brock sits tight as a string, bracing himself for a hit. But then Rollins turns and walks away, and Brock takes a few calming breaths before he finally presses the glass to his lips. He intended to drink the water slowly, but then it’s gone before he realizes. Keeping an eye on Rollins who’s now looking for something in his desk drawer and seemingly not paying him any attention, Brock pours himself another, and drinks it, too. He sighs. Sweet, sweet water.

Rollins walks back to him, and Brock’s gaze settles on the tablet in his hands. 

“I have something to show you.” 

Rollins sits down beside him, but Brock can’t tear his eyes away from the tablet. He hasn’t seen any piece of electronics in months. Rollins shows him the screen, taps one of the icons, and the vivid colors turn to black and white. He knows immediately it’s a video feed, but it takes him another moment to figure out what he’s looking at exactly.

It’s Cap. Captain freaking America, sitting with his knees drawn up in the corner of a room that would have been bare if not for a simple, small table welded to the floor in the very center. Brock stares at him wide-eyed, and maybe his jaw goes slack a little, too.

Rollins’s watching him like a hawk, and he must like his reaction, because he smirks.

“We’ve had him for days,” he explains, closing the feed and putting the tablet away. Brock tracks it to the opposite nightstand, then snaps his eyes up to Rollins’. He can’t let him notice his interest in it. “He’s a tough nut to crack. You’re going to help me.”

“Crack him?” Brock asks, confused, because well, this is new.

“Like the Asset was cracked,” Rollins explains. “He was forced to torture and kill until he became obedient.”

He must notice how completely stiff Brock goes at that, because he lets out a soft chuckle and his big hand is back on his head, stroking. 

“Not like that,” he assures, his voice laced with amusement. “I have no intention of getting rid of you.”

Then it becomes clear: sex. That’s what he’s here for. They will force Cap to rape him, maybe multiple times. He lets himself relax. That he can take. It happens every day anyway; it doesn’t make much of a difference if it’s Cap or a guy Brock thought was his friend.

Rollins smiles when he sees Brock relax, a gross stretch of his lips. He stands up again, retrieves something from the desk, and comes back to hand it to Brock. Two white pills land on his open palm. 

“Take them. Get some rest.”

Sleeping pills. Relief washes over him when he realizes what it means: there’ll be no round two with Rollins fucking his ass this time. He’s still chafed after the last gangbang, or maybe torn even, he can’t tell the difference anymore. If Rollins decided to take him, it’d be a very literal pain in the ass, one that perhaps would even make him pass out. He’s so fucking grateful this won’t be the case that he doesn’t even wonder about the pills, just takes them, washes them down with another glass of water and settles on the bed, curling into a ball. Rollins covers him with a blanket, and it’s so soft and warm around him he can’t suppress a smile, but he turns his head to hide it in the pillow. He falls asleep to Rollins petting his hair.

He wakes up on the floor. He groans unhappily, still groggy from the pills, and tries to prop himself up. That’s when he realizes he’s not alone; two pairs of hands grab him to hold him down, and he thrashes on instinct. Something cold and hard is shoved down his head and rests heavily around his neck. He feels the metal spikes tease his skin and freezes. He takes in a shaky breath as he comes back to reality and realizes that for a moment there, he forgot in what situation he is in. 

The metal collar digs into his throat and his upper body is jerked up. He takes in a ragged breath and slumps back on the plush carpet when the pressure loosens, then he’s jerked up again.

“Move!” Someone barks at him, and then he’s turned around to face them. “We don’t have all day.”

Four guys hover over him, and Brock’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes his old team. It always hurts more when it’s them, even after all this time. The men he fought with, protected, and considered his friends turned on him, becoming his torturers. 

The biggest one, Foster, is holding the leash. He pulls again, apparently determined to drag Brock out of the room if he won’t cooperate. And despite knowing it's a lost cause, Brock doesn’t want to cooperate. He doesn’t want to go back to the dog crate. Now that he’s more awake, he can feel the old pain set in his muscles and bones, and he can’t imagine spending another night crumpled in the tight space. He grabs at the carpet when Foster keeps dragging him towards the door, digs his nails in, but they’re too weak to hold and break. His front burns from the friction, and he tries to get on his feet, but it’s hard when he’s relentlessly pulled forward. He cries out for them to wait, and miraculously, they do. Shaking all over, he picks himself up on his hands and knees, only to lose his balance when Foster pulls the leash harder than expected. He whimpers as he’s mercilessly dragged over the carpet to the door. He looks around feverishly, seeking out Rollins, then mentally kicks himself when he realizes what he’s doing. Rollins wouldn’t help him; fuck, he’s the reason Brock’s here. No matter how he acts and what he does, Rollins is not his friend.

Foster drags him out onto the cool corridor floor, and Brock’s pleas to let him get on his feet turn into pleas to not take him back to the crate. He goes on for about a minute before Collins takes pity on him and tells him he’s not going to the crate. Brock shuts up at that and fixes his gaze on the floor to avoid the looks of the people they pass—other STRIKE agents and technicians. Some make snide comments his way that amuse Foster enough to laugh out loud.

He’s dragged to a storage room. He’s seen a handful of these; he’s always taken to one of those for a gangbang. Foster drops the leash and doesn’t waste any time to circle him and crouch behind him. It’s Collins who takes the choke chain off.

Brock doesn’t protest when he’s positioned onto his knees, though his muscles tremble slightly. He’s not sure why he’s barely able to keep his balance; perhaps the pills are still working. He rests his cheek on the floor, trying not to wobble as Foster parts his asscheeks and leans in to scrutinize his hole.

“Clean like my grandma’s porcelain,” he comments, and Brock jolts when a gobble of spit lands in his asscrack. “What does Rollins even do to you these days, cuddle?”

“Foster.” Collins’ voice is soft, but the warning is clear. Foster may have no respect for authority, but most of the agents draw the line somewhere, and that’s disrespecting Rollins.

“Hey, you don’t see me complaining.” Foster spits again, and just when Brock feels the wetness reach his hole, he jams two fingers in. Brock’s breath hitches. “Don’t for a second think I enjoy his sloppy seconds.” He wiggles his fingers, and Brock suppresses a sound of discomfort. “Still loose though.” He pulls out. “What’re ya waiting for, pretty him up for the guest.”

Collins rolls his eyes, but takes a hairbrush out of his pocket and kneels at the side of Brock’s head. He grabs his hair, and Brock lifts his head before he tugs. He must have a lot of knots, because the brush pulls his head down with it. Collins grabs his jaw to keep it in place, and Brock cries out when he tugs again. He’s sure Collins just tore out a handful.

“Westfahl, stick a cork in him,” Foster barks from behind him. Brock can hear the rustle of fabric, and a moment later he feels Foster’s big, warm cock gather the spit from his crack. “Bitch’s killing my boner with its whining.”

Westfahl eyes Brock warily. “No, thank you.”

Foster laughs heartily at that. “He won’t bite you again. He knows it’s not worth losing a limb.”

Westfahl’s still eyeing him. Brock uses the fact that Foster can’t see his face, Collins is still distracted with his hair, and King’s busy with his own dick, and smirks up at him. Westfahl steps back.

“He’s smirking at me!”

Collins turns Brock’s face towards him to check, and he gives him his most innocent expression.

“Stop being such a whiny bitch, Westfahl,” Foster snaps.

Westfahl was the first guy who thought shoving his dick inside Brock’s mouth was a good idea, and Brock had no qualms about biting down. Though something did stop him from biting clean through, it might just be the best memory he’s made in this place, and what came next might just be the worst one.

When the guys finally managed to unclench Brock’s teeth from around the base of Westfahl’s shaft (after they were done laughing their asses off), they dragged him to a clean, white room that smelled of antiseptic, pinned him down to a metal table and cut off the circulation in his right arm. Brock was thrashing the whole time, but he didn’t start shouting desperate protests until Rosenberg approached him with an oscillating saw. They didn’t hurt him that day, but they explained very carefully that hurting _them_ would entail losing his limbs one after another until he was nothing more than a fuckpotato. It was positively the scariest thing they’ve put him through, and when they finally released him, he cried in relief.

So yes, Foster’s right; if Westfahl gathered his courage and stuck his dick inside Brock’s mouth again, Brock would suck him off like nobody’s business. But Westfahl’s a fucking idiot, and Brock will use every opportunity to mess with him if he can get away with it.

He’s brought back to the present when Foster shoves his whole cock in him at once. With just spit easing the way and barely any preparation, the burn of the stretch makes his skin light up. His arms and legs give out and he slumps onto the floor with a pained mewl. Collins swears when the sudden fall of Brock’s head yanks the brush out of his hand, and Foster slaps his ass for that, then pulls his hips back onto his cock. 

“Someone fucking shut him up, I swear to god,” he snarls.

King walks around Westfahl and positions himself in front of Brock’s mouth, his cock in hand. Collins flinches. 

“I’m not that into you, get that outta my face.”

King snorts. “Not my fault you’re in the way.”

“This is the last time I’m doing this with you guys,” Foster pants. “You’re all whiny bitches.”

“You’re like a five-year-old that learned a new insult and keeps repeating it,” Collins shoots back.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Foster fucks him in a steady rhythm, causing his head to rock back and forth in Collins’ hands. Brock can sense him get more and more annoyed as he ties the first ponytail. Then, he stands up and circles to the other side of his head, and that’s King’s cue to push his dick past Brock’s lips, muffling his pained little gasps. The blunt head hits the back of his throat, and King lets go of him. Foster's fierce thrusts push Brock's face farther onto King's dick, doing all the work for him. 

The lack of air from the cock clogging his throat and pressing against his trachea from the inside helps him check out. For a long moment, he's vaguely aware of Collins brushing his hair and Westfahl jerking off somewhere to his right. Then he's on a completely different plane of existence, ignorant of what's happening to him until a sharp pain deep inside jerks him back to awareness. Foster must have shifted, because he's cock is impossibly deep, stretching Brock in places he didn't know it could reach.

"I hate this room." Foster grunts and keeps shifting. Brock cries out in distress around King's thick cock when he feels Foster's abdomen push against his ass, but it's too muffled to make any kind of impression. King seems to like it even, if the way he braces himself against the wall behind him and grinds his hips with a soft moan is any indication. "I prefer the one with the mattress."

"That one doesn't have any chairs." Collins chimes in from where he's lounging in a simple wooden chair farther back in the room. He's not looking at them, scrolling through something on his phone instead. 

"Like I give a fuck about your fucking chairs.”

"Newsflash: I don't give a fuck about your mattress either," Collins shoots back, not even lifting his head.

"Both of you shut up," King grumbles.

The sharp pain Foster's fucking is causing makes it impossible to space out again. Brock didn't think that was possible anymore, but apparently there are still parts of him that haven’t been thoroughly ruined, well, until now at least. He tries to shift away, pressing his face into King's pubes and swallowing his cock farther down his throat in the process. King whines and tenses, and his thighs begin to tremble.

"What the fuck," Foster pants when he feels his dick slip out of Brock's ass. He grabs his hips hard enough to bruise and jerks him back onto his lap until Brock's half-sitting, causing King's dick to fall out of Brock's mouth.

"No!" 

Brock watches cum shoot from King's slit and dribble down his shaft. He jerks his hips helplessly against the air, but it's too late and it's done. 

"No!" he shouts, tries to jerk himself through the aftershocks, and whimpers. "You ruined my fucking orgasm, you useless fucking whore!"

Foster laughs cruelly behind him, his hips speeding up as if King's misery turned him on more. The laughter is almost contagious, and Brock can't help it; the satisfaction he feels numbs the pain and clouds his judgement, and he smirks. It only pisses King off more.

"I'm gonna fuck you up!" He unholsters his long tactical knife and grabs Brock's jaw. "I'm gonna fuck your throat with that, we'll see who'll be smirking then."

The threat successfully wipes the smirk off Brock's face, and he freezes, paralyzed with fear. King squeezes his cheeks to force his mouth open, but before Brock can even think about breaking out of his grip, Collins pushes himself between them, skillfully knocking the knife out of King's hand, and Brock's face is free again.

"What the fuck?" King snarls, looking at Collins reproachfully.

"I should be asking you." Collins' voice is cold and collected.

"Yeah, you fucked up your own blowjob, so what. Don't ruin the fun for the rest of us," Foster says. His hand twists into Brock's hair, the hair ties pulling on his scalp painfully. He bucks his hips and cums with a choked moan. 

Brock barely pays attention to the wetness in his hole, more interested in the Collins vs. King stare-off. Collins protecting him from mindless violence—that's new. Collins, unlike the majority of Hydra agents, isn't his torturer. He never lays a hand on him. Doesn't hit him, doesn't even manhandle him. He's simply not into that stuff; Brock can get that. And after being tortured and raped every day by almost everyone in the building for god-knows-how-long, he admits that he's unhealthily grateful for that. 

But Collins is also an enabler. He never tries to stop his coworkers from hurting Brock, never even suggests to tone it down a bit. Hell; he might not touch Brock, but Brock witnessed him touch himself to other guys raping him more times than he can count. If he's suddenly defending Brock, it's not because he feels sorry for him or something. Apparently, Hydra agents can't do everything they want to him, there are rules they're limited by.

It's a poor comfort though, considering amputation is apparently fair game.

Foster pushes him off his lap, and Brock curls on the concrete floor, content to just lie there. Fatigue has set into his muscles, and he doesn't think he could pick himself up even if he tried. Unfortunately, Westfahl has other plans for him. He manhandles him onto his knees again, and Brock's too exhausted and sore to do anything other than let him move him however he likes without complaining. He doesn't even realize when Westfahl enters him in one swift move.

"You fucked him lose!" Westfahl accuses Foster. "I can add like, three fingers to my dick!" He does exactly that, and that Brock feels. He closes his eyes and winces, wishing Westfahl would just get on with it.

Foster walks over to take a look, mildly interested. "It was already like this. Not my fault your dick is so small, Westfahl."

King snickers and circles Brock to take a look as well. "I bet it's from all the double fucking. I'd help you fill it if I could get it up again. Hey, Collins, you sure you don't wanna have a go?"

Collins shakes his head, indicating that he's good, and walks back to his chair, already pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

"I'm starting to think he's just impotent."

Collins flips him off for that and loses interest in what else is happening in the room. Westfahl removes the fingers from Brock's ass, but his relief is short-lived as Westfahl buries himself up to the hilt and, grunting, reaches towards Brock's nipple.

"No, no, no..." he whines, trying to get away, but Foster places his boot on the side of his throat, successfully pinning him in place. He watches in interest as Westfahl pinches one of Brock's nipples and pulls, prompting him to howl.

The pain is indescribable. Brock doesn't just feel it; he _is_ pain. He tenses all over, his muscles trembling, and Westfahl moans when he clenches around him. This time, when he thrusts, Brock feels it and it hurts, but it doesn’t even compare with Westfahl lying on him to have a better access to his swollen tits and fondling them like Brock's a woman. Still watching Brock as if he’s an interesting exhibition in a museum or maybe a zoo, Foster presses harder against his throat. Brock's vision darkens, and for a blissful moment, he feels nothing.

He's brought back to consciousness with a sharp sting in his cheek. He blinks blearily. No one's fucking him anymore, and all four agents are hovering over him. Collins is holding his face, turning it to the light to see better.

"Rumlow, you with us?" Foster asks, and it's so weird to hear him call Brock by his name instead of one of many gross nicknames they all came up with for him.

"For a moment there, I thought you actually killed him," Westfahl says.

"Shut the fuck up, idiot. I did nothing."

"You stomped on his throat," King points out.

"I did no such thing!" Foster snaps. "Just massaged him there a little. He's been through worse."

"When was the last time he ate?" Collins asks.

The rest exchanges looks. 

"How should I know?" Foster asks in lieu of the answer.

Collins sighs. "And you're surprised he passed out."

"Should I bring something from the kitchen?" Westfahl asks tentatively.

Foster scrutinizes Brock for a moment. Brock hopes he can't tell how his heartbeat kicked up at the mention of food. 

"Nah," he says finally. "Maybe if he passes out again with Cap, he'll think he killed him with his fucking."

King snickers and throws Collins the collar.

Cap. That’s the guest they mentioned earlier, Brock realizes. He should've known since the start, Rollins told him about his plan after all. Brock noticed that his thinking has slowed down significantly and he's not as sharp anymore, but it's not that surprising since he's only fed enough to survive. 

Still holding his face, Collins wipes his mouth with his sleeve and then fishes a pink lipstick out of his pocket. He applies it to Brock's lips with care and precision to Foster's amusement. Then the collar is placed back around his neck, and he's jerked up when Foster tugs on the leash.

"Use your legs, whore, I ain't dragging you all the way there." 

They give him time to get his hands and feet under himself, but he can't get up. His muscles are trembling too much, and he just can't find the strength to do that.

"Maybe we _should_ feed him," Collins muses.

"No time," Fosters says, checking his watch. "The guys are already running out of patience. Do you wanna piss Rollins off? Didn't think so."

"Well, he's not gonna make it there on his own, so it's either that or you drag him."

Foster rolls his eyes. "What are you, a medic?" But he waves at Westfahl. "Fine, get him something, but fast."

Brock collapses on the floor. He could cry in relief, but keeps it all in. He doesn't know yet what Westfahl will decide to feed him, it might be something completely inedible. They like to torment him with their choice of food just as much as they do with anything else. Newspapers and toilet paper are one of the better things he ate. Once, they had the time of their lives watching him cry while chugging a bottle of extremely hot sauce.

They don't have to wait long; Westfahl soon comes back with a single protein bar that Brock shoves into his mouth right away in case they change their mind and try to take it away from him. His mouth waters when the taste of honey and strawberries explodes on his tongue. His jaw clicks as he chews slowly, wanting to make it last, but eventually it's gone, and it does little to appease his empty stomach.

"And water?" Collins asks.

"You didn't say to bring any," Westfahl points out.

"Well, wasn't it fucking obvious? Can't you think on your own for once?"

"Both of you shut up." Foster tugs on the leash again. "You better fucking walk now."

Brock doesn't know if it's the food, the rest he got, or a placebo effect, but this time he manages to stand. His gait is faltering, so Collins grabs him by the arm to secure him. He tries to remember the way they lead him in case it comes in handy in future. It's long and full of turns, and when they finally stop in front of a door, he's not sure if he'd know how to get back to his crate on his own.

King unlocks the door, and Foster and Collins shove him inside. He trips over his own foot and loses balance. He flinches when the door is slammed shut behind him. He doesn't move from his place on the floor for a moment, catching his breath and checking his surroundings.

He only now notices it's an interrogation room with a huge one-way mirror on one wall. Brock eyes it, wondering how many people are currently gathered on the other side. Probably enough to fill the small room to the brink. Even more people must be watching the live footage. Captain America breaking under pressure is a hell of a show after all. He looks up; there's a camera in every corner. 

Speaking of Cap; he's sitting curled in the same corner Brock saw him in on the footage. He has looked up when the guys opened the door and is now watching Brock. Brock's skin breaks out in a sweat as he becomes hyper aware of the state he's in: the messy pigtails curling around his face, the piercings, the lipstick; the bruises and cum dribbling out of his gaping asshole. Hydra saw him in worse states, but Cap...

Cap averts his eyes as if he can't look, and Brock feels his face burn.

"Hey, Cap," comes a voice from the speakers Brock haven't noticed earlier. He doesn't recognize it. "We thought you're getting bored in there, so we brought you our sextoy. You're welcome to use it however you like."

"No, thank you," Cap responds.

"You either fuck him or we kill you both," the voice says, the polite tone now turning cold. "Your choice."

Brock swallows thickly at that, his heart rate kicking up again. Cap is an idealist, he knows, he'd rather die than rape a person, even someone he hates as much as Brock, but would he also sacrifice Brock's life? 

And then it hits him: they won't kill them. They're not allowed to even permanently damage Brock's fuckhole. It's highly unlikely they're allowed to kill him. And it's going to be another long while before they kill Captain America, too—Brock imagines he provides plenty of entertainment. 

But Cap doesn't know that. And that's why Rollins gave him the heads up. Brock's expected to play along. To literally beg Cap to fuck him to save their lives. The heat from his cheeks spreads down his neck and chest when he thinks about it. His throat becomes so tight he doesn't think he can utter a single word.

Minutes pass as they sit still, eyeing each other. Then Brock hears the characteristic sound of the suppressed gunshot and concrete explodes in front of his face. He shouts when a chunk hits his eye.

"That was a warning shot," the voice from the speakers says.

Brock presses the heel of his palm to his hot, watering eye. His mind works quickly. They won't kill him, but they _will_ shoot him. In a leg, in an arm, or hell, in the back. Maybe they'll damage his spine and cripple him. He doesn't want to beg—fuck, that's the only thing they haven't managed to force him to do. They wanted him to, but the punishment for his refusal wasn’t bad enough for obeying to be worth it. Now though, he's looking at bleeding out while being fucked by Cap, because he will eventually, Brock's sure of that. If Brock is shot at enough times, and that's the only way to save his life, he will.

So before Hydra gets any more frustrated with them, Brock raises his head and, looking straight into Cap's eyes, says, "Just do what they say." He swallows and, reluctantly, adds, "Please. I don't wanna die here."

The vision in his hurt eye is blurry, and it's still leaking tears. Brock suspects that it helps Cap make his decision. He assesses Brock for another long while though, and Brock nervously eyes the mirror. "Any second now," he says. "Before they start shooting again. Unless you're into that."

"Not helping," Cap growls through gritted teeth. "Fine," he says louder. "Because I don’t want to be their reason for murder, not because you’re asking me to."

"I couldn’t care less about what you’re telling yourself to sleep better at night," Brock grumbles.

Cap ignores him. He drops his gaze to his pants and undoes them with slightly trembling hands. He's still in his star-spangled suit. It's torn in few places, but Cap himself looks unharmed. Brock imagines no one dared to rough him up; even captured, Cap's extremely dangerous. He was probably thrown in here and left alone. Probably hasn't been fed once since then. Otherwise, he’d be ready for them opening the door.

Brock watches as Cap pulls out his soft cock and starts stroking it. After about a minute, he realizes it's a lost cause, that he's not going to get it up, not on his own at least. He takes a deep breath, pulls himself to his hands and knees, and crawls over.

"Lemme help you with that."

Cap scowls, but doesn't react when Brock pushes his hand away and leans in to take his whole cock into his mouth. He's worked soft cocks before, of young agents that were peer-pressured into fucking him, so he knows what to do. He could write a thesis on sucking dick at this point; he knows all the sensitive spots and how much pressure to apply. In less than a minute he has Cap swelling in his mouth, fast and so much that his jaw aches again. Cap has his eyes shut tight, but Brock doesn't care—if _not_ looking at Brock helps him, then it's all the better.

Brock pulls back, the cock slipping out of his mouth and standing at attention against Cap's stomach. It's... big. Bigger than anything he's had to take so far. It doesn't look natural—the effect of the soldier serum, for sure. Brock gulps as he wonders if the notes he had read on the super soldier stamina were true, especially the part that one orgasm isn't enough to sate them.

Cap blinks his eyes open. They're glassy when he looks at Brock. Then they darken as he undoubtedly realizes that was just a beginning, and he has to do the rest himself. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, looks briefly around like there's anything to look at, then nods at the table.

Brock assesses it and decides that's probably the best option. His knees won't hurt, his skin won't get any more chafed. He can rest his head if he feels like it. It'll be strenuous for his legs, but Cap can hold him up.

At least he hopes so.

Holding onto the edge of the table, he pulls himself to his feet and bends over. He hears Cap stand up and walk over, then he feels the fabric of his pants brush against his legs. For a long moment, he does nothing. Perhaps he needs to mentally talk himself into it. Then there's a tell-tale sound of sucking, and wet fingers press against his hole. Brock sucks in a breath; his rim is sensitive after the fucking it just took. He is not looking forward to accommodating that monstrous cock.

Maybe he'll pass out again.

Cap slips in three fingers at once and rests his other hand on the table beside Brock's face. When he leans over him, Brock can't see the mirror anymore. 

"I thought it was a trick at first," Cap hisses into his ear. "But you can barely stand up."

"Wow, thanks for rubbing it in my face," Brock shoots back.

"The only reason I'm doing this is, I don't want to have you on my conscience. You're not worth it."

"That's fantastic, Cap. Now get on with it so it'll be over sooner, or I'll think you're actually getting off on this."

He doesn't see his face, so the only reaction he gets is the fingers slipping out and a blunt head of Cap's cock pressing against his entrance.

And then the push.

"Fuck!" Brock can't help the loud cry that tears itself out of his mouth. He thought he knew the pain of being split open. He knew nothing. 

Cap stills and hisses an apology into his ear.

"Doesn't matter," Brock snarls, his voice shaking. "Just—" he trails off, unable to force the words past his lips. He wants Cap to keep going so it'll be over sooner, but he also really doesn't want him to keep going.

Cap seems to understand as he thrusts again, sinking farther inside. Brock chokes back a pained moan this time. He's tense and shaking, and his eyes are burning with unshed tears. When he can finally feel Cap's abdomen against his ass, his rim is stretched impossibly, and he's never been so filled up. It's too much, his body is screaming at him to abort, but he's pinned down to the table, and besides, there's nowhere to run.

Cap pulls out, and Brock hears the hitch in his breath when he slams back in. He shuts his eyes closed, but the pain is too great for dissociating to be possible. Maybe when he gets more used to the blunt force Cap's handling him with. The previous fucking turns out to be a small mercy—Cap's cock would have been much more difficult to handle without Foster and then Westfahl opening him up and filling him with their spunk. 

Just as he's thinking about him, Westfahl's voice fills the room.

"Cap, if he's too loose there's a neat little trick—" There's the sound of a scuffle, and the speakers fall silent again.

"Dammit, Westfahl," Brock breathes, and he can't be sure, but he thinks he can hear Cap smile behind him. Westfahl has always been the butt of the joke in STRIKE, and he made even the perfect Captain run out of patience sometimes.

It should be him here instead of Brock, really.

After a few slow, almost tentative thrusts, Cap picks up the pace. Brock clenches the edge of the table so much his hands hurt, and it takes his mind off what's happening behind him at least a little. His body gets used to the super soldier cock and goes a bit slack. Brock's on the verge of spacing out when suddenly he feels Cap's hand on his junk. It makes him jerk.

"No!" he says involuntarily and Cap backs off. Perhaps he wanted to alleviate the pain this way, but it'd just be an additional torture. 

Perhaps he's not even aware how much pain he's putting Brock in exactly. Has he fucked anyone before? Brock's willing to bet that no. He's Cap's first. What a fucking honor.

He really has no idea what he's doing, does he?

He's hissing behind him now, the odd sounds a result of his attempts to suppress his moans. Brock can feel his cock pulse inside him, and it must be it. It must be soon. Right now. _Please._

And sure, soon enough Cap pulls out and doesn't go back in. Warm wetness dribbles down Brock's thighs, and his hole twitches around nothing. Cap's panting, bracing himself on the table, but when Brock's knees buckle, he presses one hand to the small of his back to keep him from falling. It hurts, but nothing can compare with being split in half with that monster cock, so Brock doesn't even wince. He's trying to catch his breath with his sweaty cheek sticking to the metal surface, feeling more relieved than ever. It's over. He can't wait to be taken to his crate where he can lick his wounds in peace and pass out.

"What's the matter, Cap?" comes a voice from the speakers, the same one as the first time. "You're still hard. We want to see you fuck him until you can't get it up anymore. Or we'll shoot you both."

Brock doesn't know how he manages not to squeak at that. "How many times is that?"

Cap sighs behind him. "Another couple at most."

Brock swallows dryly. He can take a couple. Really, he's been through worse, and the second time won't be as bad now that he's stretched. He can take it. 

"Do it fast," he says.

But Cap doesn't move for a longer while, still bracing on the table and panting. Brock twitches nervously. He wants to tell him to hurry up, but he can't force the words past his throat. He doesn't want to be shot at, but he also doesn't want that cock in him again. But then it's slipping back in, and damn, the guy wasn't kidding, it's still as rock hard as Brock remembers. He closes his eyes and winces when Cap moves; it burns, he must be quite chafed. But he was right—it's not as bad the second time, so he can take his focus off it and let his thoughts flow freely.

He wonders what Hydra's plan is here. Surely more than entertainment; Rollins told him it was about breaking Cap. But do they really believe _this_ will do it? Cap doesn't seem broken in the slightest. He does what he has to keep both of them alive. During the war, he must have made tons of decisions like that, Brock's sure. So this is just the beginning. He'll go through the same process the Asset did, ending with the Memory Suppressing Machine.

Only Captain America isn't the believed-to-be-dead James Barnes, right? The Avengers will come for him. They have to, that's how it always works, Hydra running the world or not. Seeing an opportunity to free himself, Brock forces himself to come back to reality. Cap is bent over him, and if Brock lifted his head and whispered, he'd undoubtedly hear him, but would also everyone else? He wonders about the possible quality of the mics installed in the room. It's an old base, and it's unlikely they were ever replaced, so they must be rather cheap ones. If Brock’s lucky—and he really isn’t nowadays—they won’t pick up his whisper, especially over the loud slapping of skin on skin. 

So Brock lifts his head and whispers, “Is someone coming for you?”

Cap doesn’t answer; perhaps he didn’t hear. Brock can’t reach him with his elbow, so he grits his teeth and thrusts his hips back to get his attention. A small distressed sound tears itself out of his mouth, and he must be about as surprised by it as Cap is about his sudden moan. But at least now he can feel Cap’s smoldering gaze at the back of his head.

“Is someone coming?” he repeats. “I might have the means—” he cuts himself off. If Hydra hears him talking about a possible access to a tablet, he’s done.

He’s sure Cap heard this time, but there’s still no answer. It makes Brock nervous; he’s been already sweating, but now he can feel it drip down his back and arms.

“Cap?” he prompts, desperation sneaking into his voice.

Cap slams into him so hard that he jerks, and he growls into his ear, “I don’t know.”

Brock’s eyes widen and he drops his head onto the table. And that’s how reality breaks his door of delusion that has been keeping him sane: with Captain America’s dick so far up his ass he can taste it on his tongue, watched by countless Hydra agents.

All this time, he was convinced his situation was temporary. That he’d somehow get out. He’s been waiting for something, maybe a rescue, or an opportunity, or maybe for a plan to form itself in his mind on its own.

But hearing the despair in Cap’s voice, he realizes that _no one is coming._ There is no way out. This is his life now, and he will most likely die here.

He covers his face with his hand and for the first time since he was captured and made a sextoy, he sobs.


	2. Chapter 2

Brock wakes up wrapped in something warm and soft. As he shifts, the bed dips underneath him like a huge marshmallow. It’s the nicest he’s woken up in a long while, and it makes him groan softly. As soon as the sound leaves his mouth, he feels something smooth pressing against his lips, making his heart jump and eyes open wide in panic. But then a sweet smell breaks through to him, making him realize what it is: a grape. He opens his mouth, and the fruit is pushed past his chapped lips. He lets it sit on his tongue for a few seconds, wanting to make sure it’s real, and when he salivates, he bites. Sweet juice floods his mouth, and he smiles in bliss, his eyes falling close. After he swallows, another grape is pushed against his lips, and then another, and another.

After the fifth grape, Brock’s first hunger is satisfied, so he opens his eyes to cast a look around without moving his head. He realizes he’s in Rollins’ bedroom, lying in his bed, with his warm, firm body pressed against his back. It stings; for a moment there, he dared to hope he was saved. 

His body starts to wake up, too, and the ever-present pain sets in. His rim smarts more than usual, and memories of Cap fucking him flood his mind. He must have passed out during, because he can’t remember leaving or being brought here. He wonders briefly if they made Cap fuck him when he was unconscious, but the answer must be yes. It must have been even more mortifying for Cap than fucking him when he was awake.

Brock throws the memories out of his thoughts, instead focusing on the green grapes which keep coming. He’s afraid that each one will be the last, but then his stomach feels full for the first time in ages, and Rollins is still feeding him. Brock forces himself to swallow everything he gets, knowing this will be his only food for days to come, but when his stomach begins to ache, it feels more like torture than pleasure, and he wonders if he won’t throw it all up. His stomach must be tiny if it can’t contain a cluster of small grapes. 

Finally, Rollins’ hand disappears from his peripheral vision, and Brock feels him lean away. He stays still, breathing a little hard. He tries to brace himself for whatever Rollins has in mind for him next; he’s not here so he can be hand-fed, after all. But he’s feeling lazy, full and warm, and he wishes he could just drift off to sleep. 

Instead, he jolts when something cold fills him up; Rollins has squirted lube directly into his asshole. Brock feels his fingers enter painlessly; he must be still stretched wide from Cap’s monster cock.

“You did a great job,” Rollins mutters against his ear. “I watched you. Rogers panicked when you passed out; it was perfect.”

He thrusts his fingers in and out of Brock’s hole, and it keeps being surprisingly painless. The lube soothes the undeniably torn skin of his walls, and it’s—not all terrible. He’s not sure if Rollins is actually expecting him to answer, so he just hums softly in acknowledgement.

Suddenly, Rollins curls his fingers, and Brock jerks in pain. Rollins must misinterpret his reaction, because he doesn’t let up, rubbing Brock inside until he’s tense and sweating—or maybe he doesn’t, it’s not like he has ever cared about Brock’s comfort.

Brock’s so dazed with the pain that he takes a while to understand that what Rollins is torturing is his prostate. Everything hurt when Cap fucked him, but now that the chafed skin has more or less healed, the abuse his prostate went through is so much more apparent. He whines, bites the pillow, and shuts his eyes tight. He should start spacing out soon. Anytime now...

He’s hauled up so suddenly, the fabric slips out from between his teeth. The fingers are gone from his ass, and as Rollins puts him in his lap, they’re replaced by the head of his cock. The sudden upright position makes him dizzy, and he needs to brace himself against Rollins’ bare chest.

“Can we—can we not?” he asks quietly, not quite meeting his gaze. “I’m tired.”

“You can rest, sweetheart,” Rollins purrs. The pet name gives Brock a full body shudder; this shit has been going on for months, but he’s still not used to how creepy Rollins can act. “I’ll do all the work.”

He guides Brock’s head to rest against his shoulder. This close to his neck he can smell his cologne, and it’s the only pleasant thing about this situation, as opposed to his sweaty, sticky skin and the hard, thick cock Brock’s being pushed onto. Rollins keeps his promise and doesn’t expect Brock to ride him; he rather moves his hips up and down, fucking himself like with a sex toy—which Brock supposes he is now. Rollins is one of the bigger cocks he has been forced to take, but even his doesn’t compare to Captain America’s, and for once, sex with him isn’t painful, especially now that he’s not hitting his prostate. Once Brock closes his eyes, his mind is quick to take him somewhere else. It might even be said he’s resting—until the feel of a warm hand on his cock draws a moan from his throat.

“There you are,” Rollins rasps against his ear and sucks in the skin beneath. Brock barely registers it, more preoccupied with the pulse he can feel in his crotch. He shifts his head to look down, and—yes. He’s hard.

He stares at his full, flushed erection in both awe and horror. After months of day-to-day rape, he really didn’t think he’d ever be able to get it up, not to mention with Rollins balls deep inside him. His face burns hot; if he thought Cap seeing him naked, fucked open, wearing pigtails and lipstick was bad, this is a hundred times worse.

He’s not enjoying it. He’s being raped, for fuck’s sake. He feels sick, but his cock doesn’t agree with his stomach, and twitches in pleasure when Rollins strokes it with his big, calloused hand. Another moan escapes Brock’s mouth. He bites his tongue, but it’s too late; it rings loud and clear, and Rollins picks up his pace in both fucking and stroking him. Brock hides his face back in Rollins’ neck, because he can’t look, he can’t be present for this—

As much as he doesn’t want to, he’s hyper aware of his body; of the heartbeat in his dick, and how his hips jerk chaotically under Rollins’ hands; how unsettled his stomach feels because of all the grapes and the movement; how his saliva tastes like bile, and how hot and sweaty he is. Rollins babbles into his ear about how he loves fucking him; how Brock loves his cock; how he loves the sounds Brock makes; how he doesn’t need to hold back and can cum, but Brock’s only paying him half of his attention, too busy trying not to vomit over them both. Soon though, all his discomfort and even shame fades as pleasure builds up in his abdomen. His world narrows down to Rollins’ hand that’s bringing him closer and closer to orgasm. The pace is unrelenting, and he doesn’t last long; he digs his fingers into Rollins’ shoulders and lets out a broken moan as his body tenses up. Rollins murmurs something, but Brock can’t hear it over his own heartbeat. Then, his hips buck involuntarily into his hand, and he’s cumming.

He slumps against the firm, sweaty body beneath him, his ears ringing and his mind floating. He’s uncomfortable, hot and sticky, but for once, he doesn’t care. He’s vaguely aware of Rollins still fucking him, but he can’t feel him cumming; after some time, he’s just removed from his lap and laid down on the bed. As his afterglow subsides, he feels sick again. He hopes that if he lies still for a while, it will pass.

Rollins gets up and moves around, but Brock is too tired to track him with his eyes or even care. A moment later, a glass of water is pressed into his hand, and he takes it gratefully; his mouth feels like a desert. Rollins refills it once Brock empties it, and hands him two pills. That gets Brock’s heart to skip a beat, and he looks up at him in disbelief. 

“Sleep... here?” he asks, his voice more croaky than he expected.

Rollins just nods, and hell, Brock will take any bed over the fucking dog crate, so he isn’t about to look the gift horse in the mouth. He takes the pills, waters them down and lies down onto his side. He can feel warm cum drip out of his ass, but then Rollins pushes it back in. What enters Brock’s ass isn’t his finger though; it’s hard and smooth, and—hell, is it a butt plug?

It’s a novel feeling, and while not painful, he can feel it there, and his body wants it out. He shifts his hips, but stills when Rollins rests his hand on his thigh. He knows it’s a warning, so he just grits his teeth and waits for his body to adjust.

Rollins goes to the bathroom for a moment, and when he returns and lies down, Brock’s already drifting off. He cracks one eye open when he feels a hot breath on his face, and then Rollins kisses him. 

It’s different from all the other times Rollins has kissed him; gentle, affectionate, and not as gross—or perhaps Brock’s just too tired to feel grossed out. He doesn’t return it, but Rollins doesn’t seem to mind, and when he closes his eyes again, the pills finally knock him out.

When he wakes up, the room is dark, and he can hear snoring beside him. He lies still for a while, staring into the impenetrable darkness as the opportunity he’s presented with fully sinks in. 

_ He’s in a room with a tablet, and Rollins is asleep. _

He feels a rush of adrenaline and holds his breath as he weighs the pros and cons of acting now. Rollins might wake up any time after all, and he’s sure he’ll be left alone in his bedroom again. He doesn’t know when that will happen though and if he’ll be free to roam around instead of chained to the bed. Besides, what if Rollins takes the tablet with him? It might be now or never, so with his heart in his throat, he gently places his feet on the carpet and gets up. Rollins is still steadily snoring, so Brock sighs in relief and, goggling to see better, he tiptoes around the bed with his arms outstretched. His fingers brush the chipboard counter, and he stops. He listens in for any sounds that might indicate Rollins has woken up, then feels for the drawer. Once he finds it, he opens it slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He gently reaches inside, and there it is, his possible ticket to freedom right beneath his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and picks it up, then lights it up. The bright light hurts his eyes, but when he turns it towards the room, it softly illuminates his surroundings.

Rollins is lying on his stomach with his head pillowed against his folded arms, his back rising and falling with his breath. A thought hits Brock that almost makes his knees buckle with its boldness—he could kill him. Drive a knife through his back or shoot him in the head. He illuminates the inside of the drawer, but doesn’t find any weapon. He’s sure Rollins keeps a gun in his bedroom, but as long as Brock doesn’t know where it is, it’s too risky to look for it. Instead, he aims the light at the bathroom door. Now that he can see the way, he walks fast, almost jogs when the door is within his reach. He slips inside, carefully closes the door, and nearly slumps against it in relief. 

He sets the tablet down on the counter on its back, so it illuminates the small space around him. His reflection is but paleness and shadows, and he avoids looking at it. He reaches behind and pulls the butt plug out, then winces when he looks at it. It’s nothing special; black and not even big, but it glistens with what he supposes is Rollins’ semen. He drops it in the sink, aware that he’ll need to put it back in. Absolutely gross. 

He takes the tablet with him as he goes to sit on the toilet. He briefly thinks back to the times when he took his privilege to use the toilet for granted, but shakes the thought off. He doesn’t know how much time he has, so the sooner he’s done, the better.

He unlocks the screen and with his heart in his throat, taps the internet icon. Sharp, white light makes him squint as the browser loads. His hands shake when he types a name.

_ Natasha Romanoff _

He scrolls through the results. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly. The little he knows about the world outside doesn’t paint a hopeful picture: overtaken and ruled by Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D. destroyed, Captain America captured and imprisoned. If there’s someone still fighting against Hydra, and Brock can contact them, it won’t be through Wikipedia or Facebook. But he needs to start somewhere.

He taps a random article just to find out Romanoff has been killed during Hydra’s Uprising in the Triskelion. He curses softly and looks for the others. Stark is dead, too. Barton and Hill are hiding and pursued by bounty hunters. Brock can only hope they’re together and forming a rebellion, but other than that, the knowledge doesn’t help him in any way. He lets out a shaky breath, wondering what to do next. He could leave an encrypted message somewhere, but Hydra knows all the S.H.I.E.L.D. codes, and no one can help him if he’s dead. He closes the internet and goes through the apps, hoping for some genius idea to strike him. He stumbles onto the surveillance streaming. He opens a camera view after camera view. His old team is sitting in some cozy looking room and playing cards. The sound must be off, but it’s too risky to turn it up, and besides, Brock doubts he’d learn anything useful from them. The labs are busy with white coats moving around like a colony of bees, but whatever they’re working on doesn’t tell Brock a thing. Then he finds Cap’s holding cell; he’s sitting curled in on himself in the corner, naked. Brock bites his lip. If only there was an app that controlled the cells’ locks...

And then another bold idea hits him: he could break out Cap himself. He can vaguely remember the way, and with the surveillance streaming, he can avoid the agents wandering about. If he can’t find the key, maybe he can pick a lock with something, and then maybe they’d stand a chance to break themselves out—

He shakes his head; too many maybes. Despite how terrible his life currently is (and that’s an understatement), he isn’t too keen on the idea of losing it. He closes the app with a sigh. So that’s it? He stole the tablet for nothing?

He sits there for a while longer, desperately trying to come up with an idea that would have at least half a chance of working and wouldn’t get him killed. If only Cap had told him a name back then... Brock would know trying to contact them wouldn’t be a total waste of time. But he has no names, no ways of contact, and his half-baked plan to break Cap out is bound to fail. He rests the tablet on his thighs and hides his face in his hand, squeezing his temples and trying desperately not to start crying like a baby. He’s an ex-commander of STRIKE after all, even if currently reduced to a sex slave. His missions didn’t have a 99% success rate because he cried when things went to shit.

He manages to calm down a little and looks down at the tablet again. He has too little intel and no team behind him, but he was one of the best, and he can do it, with a tablet or without it. Even if it takes him a lot of time. He sighs, wipes himself down and winces when flushing because damn, that’s loud in the night's stillness. He listens in for a while, and when he hears nothing, he moves to the sink to wash his hands and the butt plug. He inserts it back and creeps towards the door. He slowly opens it and walks straight into Jack.

He looks up at him with his eyes wide and body starting to shake. “I—I just—” he stumbles, wondering how the hell to even explain himself. He looks pretty fucking guilty with the tablet held right in front of him like a flashlight. He can’t believe he got caught red-handed so stupidly...

Whatever explanation starts to form in his mind, it dies the moment Rollins takes the tablet and checks the opened apps. Brock’s blood runs cold; even if Rollins had any doubts before, now he has proof Brock was looking for information and not, let’s say, using the tablet’s light to find his way to the bathroom (which is an unbelievable excuse anyway). Why didn’t he think of this? He could have closed the browser and the surveillance feed and open a game. It would have still looked suspicious, but at least Rollins wouldn’t have seen black on white that Brock tried to find out about the Avengers’ and S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives’ fates.

Rollins looks up at him, and Brock doesn’t know if it’s the white light, or if his stare is really so cold it sends a tremor through him. Suddenly, Rollins strikes out, but Brock ducks, and Rollins hits the door right beside his head instead. 

“I give you a chance, and this is what you do?” he asks in a dangerously low voice. “Look for your old S.H.I.E.L.D. buddies the moment my back is turned?”

Brock swallows thickly, but when he meets Rollins’ gaze, he does it with a defiant look. He’s just compromised himself anyway, so he might as well stop acting docile.

“Fuck you, Rollins,” he snarls. “You seem to be under some crazy impression I’m here of my own volition—”

He doesn’t dodge a backhand this time. His head flies back from a force of it.

“—be six feet deep,” Rollins’ voice breaks through the ringing in his ears. “They hated you just as much as they did Pierce; maybe more. I saved your fucking life.”

Brock glares back at him. “So what, I’m supposed to be grateful that thanks to you I’m—” His voice wavers, but he takes a breath and for the first time says it aloud— “raped... every fucking day? Killing me would’ve been more merciful.”

Rollins’ response is to shove his forearm against Brock’s throat, pressing him into the door. Brock thrashes wildly as his breath is knocked out of him, but his training kicks in, and his hand flies to Rollins’ throat. Rollins expects it though and catches his wrist.

“I know all your moves,  _ commander _ .” He grins like it’s a clever insult, and hell, Brock hasn’t felt more ashamed even when called a girl or a cockslut. That word means nothing now, and he should have never let it happen. “You want to die so much? It won’t be a problem. I guess I owe you something after all. What do you say?”

He tries to pull Rollins’ arm away with his free hand, but it doesn’t budge; only presses more into his trachea. It dawns on him what a terrible mistake he’s made. What was he expecting to achieve by his little outburst? Make Rollins feel bad? The only thing he has achieved was letting Rollins know there’s still fight in him. It will definitely postpone his escape. 

The room starts spinning, and he does what he’s sure Rollins is expecting: he taps out. The pressure against his neck lets up, but his wrist is still held in a vice grip.

“Didn’t think so,” Rollins jeers. He pulls Brock towards the door. “It’s back to the cage with you.”

The corridors are dark and deserted, but the lights above turn on as they pass. Brock can feel his heart jackhammer as he follows Rollins and he’s jolting at every shadow he sees out of the corner of his eye. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop; the retribution for going behind Rollins’ back can’t be just spending the rest of the night in the crate. 

They turn a corner, and even in the dim light Brock can see the crate at the far end. Rollins opens it and gestures for him to crawl in, what Brock does without complaint. Rollins shuts the door and walks away. Brock lies in the darkness for minutes, tense, waiting, until he believes that that’s it. That he won’t be punished after all. He lets himself sigh in relief; he doesn’t want to get too optimistic. 

He closes his eyes, but after spending so much time in a comfortable bed, he has trouble falling asleep. His legs feel cramped in the tight space, and there’s no way to stretch them. His bones ache from lying on the hard metal. The pressure on the top of his head from the bars is difficult to ignore. He realizes his body’s needs now that he has nothing to distract himself with; he’s hungry and thirsty again, but unfortunately, not tired. After another handful of minutes doing nothing, he also becomes bored.

Groaning, he shifts his body until he’s lying on his back. With his knees up in the air and feet resting against the bars, he would have been comfortable if it wasn’t for the hard floor. He reaches for his navel ring and plays with it as he closes his eyes again and imagines he’s somewhere else.

He’s in the house he was planning to buy after the successful launch of Insight. He has a garden with a vegetable patch and fruit trees. Inside, there’s a fireplace and a big couch with a pile of soft blankets on the side. And a rocking chair. He’s sitting in it, watching a movie on a low volume. A dog is sleeping at his feet, a big one trained to bite on command. He’s eating a full meal and watering it down, and as soon as the movie ends, he’ll go to sleep in his big bed with Egyptian cotton sheets—

His spine being dragged over the crate’s threshold wakes him up. His bones pop when two pairs of hands straighten out his body. A choke collar is pushed down his head, and he’s pulled onto his feet.

He’s already walking down the corridor, busier now than at night, when he’s awake enough to recognize the people that lead him. It’s his old team again, but with a pang of alarm, Brock notes the absence of Collins. The fourth agent is Rosenberg which is even more concerning, and to top it all, Westfahl is carrying a rifle. Brock has a bad feeling before he even realizes where they’re heading.

He stops in his tracks when he recognizes the route to the body modification room—or at least that’s what he calls the clean, white room he got forcefully pierced in multiple times. Rosenberg pulls onto the chain leash, and Brock moves on tense legs. It’s been a while since he last was here; he’s thought they already put all the piercings they wanted in him, so he expected another gangbang, but not this.

He also has an unpleasant feeling he’s not here to get pierced this time. Memories of being pinned down to the metal table and having the circulation in his right arm cut off flash in front of his eyes. Feeling light-headed, he stumbles when taking another step and falls onto his knees. He yelps when the pain of the impact takes him by surprise.

“What the fuck?” Rosenberg asks, pulling on the leash again. Metal spikes dig into Brock’s nape, causing white spots to dance in front of his eyes.

Foster scoffs. “He does that.” He pokes Brock’s side with the toe of his boot. “Get up, bitch, we don’t have all day.”

When Brock looks up at him, the spots become bigger, whiting out Foster’s face. A thin sheen of cold sweat covers his body, and his stomach does a somersault when he tries to get back onto his feet. Then, his vision whites out completely, and he feels himself fall.

When he comes to, he’s kneeling on the cold, hard tiles of the white room. He’s kept upright by Foster’s hands—and he really hates the fact that he’s so intimately familiar with the agent that he can recognize him by his touch alone. His chest is braced against the metal table, and his right arm is stretched out on it, held in a vice grip by King. Brock, still sweating profusely and shaking from how cold it makes him, tries to yank his arm away. King isn’t big, but lean in the way that suggests he used to be a swimmer. Brock remembers him being no challenge on the mats, but now, King’s hold is too strong to break. King smirks smugly at him, and Brock ducks his head. 

He tries to regulate his breathing to calm himself down, but it’s hard when he knows what’s about to happen. When he sees a pair of boots approaching him, he looks up, his heart feeling like it’s about to burst out of his chest. A wave of relief washes over him when he notices Rosenberg isn’t holding the oscillating saw, but it’s short-lived when he realizes what the hammer is most likely for. He shudders violently against Foster’s bulk. King unfolds his fist and smooths it out on the table. 

“Don’t hit me,” he tells Rosenberg as he pins Brock’s wrist down.

Rosenberg scoffs, offended. “I’m a professional.”

Ignoring how he’s hyperventilating, Brock thinks back to his torture training. He never had his bones crushed, but he was forced to withstand a lot of pain. He’s been withstanding a lot of pain since he was enslaved; he’s gotten used to it. It won’t be much different. He closes his eyes, deciding to treat it like just another training.

The hammer falls onto his fingers with a deafening snap. He’s screaming before the pain fully registers, and when it does, it’s so much worse. He doesn’t have the time to recover before the hammer hits his metacarpus. By the time his thumb is crushed, tears and snot run freely down his face, and he doesn’t even have the energy to try to stop them. A strong ammonia smell hits his nostrils, and he doesn’t need to look down to know what has happened; his wet legs only confirm his suspicion.

“Fuck, he pissed himself,” Foster says. His big hand grabs the back of Brock’s head and bashes it into the table. Pain flares up Brock’s nose straight to his head. “You got piss on my pants you stupid bitch!”

Somewhere to his right, Westfahl is laughing. 

“It’s not fucking funny,” Foster barks at him. “Shut up, or I’ll make you do my laundry.”

Westfahl stops laughing. “Fuck off.”

Foster turns to King. “Hold me or I’ll go and hurt him, I swear to god.”

“I’m already holding one princess down,” King responds.

Brock can sense that Foster isn’t happy about his younger teammates talking back to him, and that there isn’t much he can do about it in the current situation. But he can take his frustration out on Brock instead. He grabs his hair and shoves his face harder against the table. A wet puddle reaches his cheek, and Brock realizes he’s bleeding from his nose. 

“I ain’t gonna clean after you.” Foster leans in, his breath hot on Brock’s face. It reeks of coffee and cigarettes. “You’re gonna clean it all yourself to the last drop. You copy?”

Brock tries to swallow, but his mouth is completely dry. “Yes, sir,” he replies, his voice but a rough whisper. 

Another powerful hit aimed onto his knuckles draws a long, hoarse scream from him. King lets go of his wrist and Brock looks up at his hand. It’s now twice its size and red-purple. He sobs when he tries to move his fingers and nothing happens. He realizes he would need a surgery to fix bones this crushed, and that no one will provide it. These motherfuckers just destroyed his dominant hand for good.

For that brief moment, he thinks the worst is over, but then King wrenches his left arm onto the table.

“No!” he rasps, fighting against him and losing. “Not both!”

“You don’t deserve your hands, whore,” King spits. “You should fucking thank us for not sawing them off.”

The heat and throbbing of his right hand is momentarily outshined by the excruciating pain in his left. Rosenberg hits every nail, then every knuckle, and Brock screams and screams until all that comes out of his mouth are quiet, rough sounds, and his throat feels like someone put sandpaper to it.

“Anyone else getting turned on?” King asks, adding insult to injury. His words make Brock look up, and through the tears, he notices the tent in his pants. He turns his head away, but at the same time Foster’s hardness presses against the small of his back.

He doesn’t realize immediately when King lets go of his wrist, and Rosenberg stops hitting him and moves away. At first he just thinks he’s lost feeling in his hand, but it still pains more than anything he’s ever went through. He slumps against Foster’s bulk, and the agent lets out a soft rumble when Brock’s ass lands on his lap. Brock ignores it, staring at his useless hands. Tears are still leaking from his eyes, making his vision blurry, but he can see their ugly, purple-dead color.

Then, Foster grabs the back of his neck and shoves him face-first into the puddle of his own piss on the floor. His arms shoot up automatically to hold him up. He would have howled when his hands hit the hard tiles, but he only breathes out air. Piss floods his open mouth, and he chokes on it as he inhales.

“Pathetic,” Foster says as Brock coughs and splutters. “Pull yourself together and clean that up. I want this floor dry when you finish.”

Brock opens one eye as the other is submerged in piss. It slowly dawns on him that Foster really wants him to drink it. When he tries to look up, all he can see are the legs of the agents surrounding him and the dark eye in the barrel of Westfahl’s rifle. He swallows the thick spit that has gathered on the back of his tongue and drops his gaze. Over the side of his nose, he can see the puddle.

It’s not big; with how dehydrated he is, he doesn’t have much water to excrete. But that also means it’s concentrated; dark yellow with a sharp smell that he can taste on his tongue. Wincing, he slowly parts his lips and slips his tongue out.

It’s sour, bitter and reminds him of cheap beer—only if it was beer, it would have been the worst he’s ever had. There’s a hint of metal; he must be still bleeding from his nose, adding to the puddle. 

The faster he does it, the sooner it’ll be over, so he closes his eyes and laps it up, swallowing right away and trying not to pay attention to the taste. It’s not all bad; the cold tiles soothe his hands a little, and it’s easy to get lost in his mind. In comparison to having his hands hammered, this is almost relaxing.

Foster moves his head here and there, where the piss traveled farther down the grouting, and he cleans it with his tongue. Finally, Foster lets him go, and he’s hauled up to his feet again. The sour-bitter taste remains in his mouth as they walk through the base. He twitches nervously when they pass his crate and he realizes the torture isn’t over yet. He slows down significantly when he recognizes the way. 

In a main corridor there’s a fuck bench bolted to the concrete floor right in the middle of an intersection. Brock had a dubious pleasure of spending a whole day in it a handful of times. He definitely prefers the casual gangbangs, because those at least don’t last more than a couple of hours; often much less. 

Westfahl pushes him forward with the butt of his rifle. Brock grits his teeth and, breathing hard through his aching nose, lets himself be strapped down. He bites down on a whimper when Foster and Rosenberg roughly grab his hands. Agents passing by cheer loudly, happy to have an opportunity for a quick fuck on their break. 

Once Brock’s body is fully secured, King wastes no more time. He shoves his pants and underwear down, freeing his full erection. He grabs Brock by the hair and guides his cock to his mouth. Brock can feel somebody remove the butt plug and push their fingers dry into his ass. Some passing agents and lab coats pause to look, some line up behind King. Brock closes his eyes to stop himself from calculating how long he’ll spend here. He’d rather be surprised when it’s over.

He slips in and out of awareness. It’s hard to stay in the dreamland when he’s so uncomfortable; sure, the bench is padded, but he can’t rest his head, and the straps are digging into his skin, leaving burns whenever someone shoves or pulls him too hard. 

The taste of cum mixes in with Brock’s pissy saliva, and King pulls out. He zips himself up and walks away. Another agent takes his place. Brock doesn’t open his eyes, but he remembers it was Guldbrandsen who lined up right behind King. Sharp, musky scent hits his nostrils when a damp tip gathers spit from around his mouth and pushes in. Someone in the background is still fucking him dry. The sound of the man’s grunting tells him it’s Rosenberg.

After a while of being pushed and pulled, other agents get impatient. Guldbrandsen hasn’t yet pulled out when two more cocks start rubbing against Brock’s face. The skin under the pleather straps becomes wetter and wetter, stinging bad enough to fight for his focus against the still throbbing hands, the thick cock tearing his ass, and the long one clogging his throat.

Instead, he imagines being comfortable. The image of the table in Cap’s cell briefly flashes in front of his eyes, but that was far from comfortable, even if slightly better than the fuck bench. No, he thinks of a bed. The king-sized bed he would have had if he wasn’t captured. The bed he will have once he gets the fuck out of here. 

He’s lying on a memory foam mattress, wrapped in soft, fresh sheets. Warm sunlight seeps through the big window. He can smell the wind, blooming apple trees and freshly mowed grass. It’s quiet, and he can rest his head, and his knees don’t hurt, and his skin doesn’t sting. Fingers slip through his hair, and when he opens his eyes, it’s Rollins—

His eyes shot open just when someone cums on his face. A dribble hits his eye, and he blinks it out quickly, but it’s too late; it stings and waters, adding to the mess on his face. It’s the same eye that got irritated in Cap’s cell; one day, something will blind him.

He opens his mouth for yet another hard, red dick, but with his good eye, he can see the line has gotten shorter. These people aren’t here for fun; they have work, and some of them have resigned. Brock knows they’ll come back later, but for now, he feels a bit relieved. Another person comes on his abused ass, someone else jerks off and shoots all over his back. He can feel it drip down his sides, his thighs, his neck. His hands have become numb, though they’re still warm.

He slumps after the last agent hides his dick and walks away. He’s itchy from all the drying cum and he can’t even scratch himself. It makes him want to howl. Pain he knows. Pain he can handle. Itching is so much more rare and therefore, so much worse.

He jerks when he hears footsteps, but he can’t bring himself to raise his head, even if his back hurts when it’s hanging down. But when it isn’t, it’s his neck—really, neither option is good.

A hand winds into his hair and pulls. Brock’s eye is still leaking, but his vision’s not as blurry. He doesn’t recognize the man in front of him. He thinks he might have fucked him before, but he’s not sure. He’s young—so young—so Brock supposes he’s a recruit. New people must have joined Hydra now that they’re publicly known and controlling the world. Or at least America, frankly, Brock isn’t sure. 

Far to the left, another stranger circles Brock, also young. Another youngster joins the first one. A rookie team, Brock realizes. 

“I’m not sure about this,” says a voice behind him. Four men then. The words bring Brock hope that maybe they’ll leave him alone, but he’s learned not so long ago hope is useless in this place.

“Too filthy for you? You want a tissue?” The second one on Brock’s left mocks.

“You have any?” The fourth one asks, either not catching the sarcasm, or simply not caring. 

There’s rustling, and then Brock feels soft fabric prod at his hole. The fourth one wipes his ass and thighs. It helps with the itching. He makes a sound of disgust, and a moment later, Brock’s hole twitches around his cock head. All the cum inside Brock helps it slide in, and it doesn’t even hurt.

Brock doesn’t need to be told to open his mouth for the one with his fingers still in his hair; he does it automatically. The stranger shoves his half-hard cock in and begins fucking Brock’s face right away, grunting. The abuse Brock’s throat has gone through becomes more noticeable and harder to ignore as the tip prods at it. The other two just stand there, watching. Brock doesn’t like the third’s analyzing gaze; it makes him shift nervously, which earns him a smack upside the head from the first one when his cock slips out of his mouth.

“He doesn’t have enough holes,” the third one says, scrunching up his nose.

“Why I prefer women,” the second one says. Brock can hear him open his zipper and stroke his cock. “That and the boobies.”

“Me, too, I’m not a fucking fag,” the third one snaps.

“Hey, no one here is a fag,” the first one pants as he fucks Brock’s mouth.

“There’s lotsa place to make new holes though,” the second one notices and pulls out a knife. The third one cackles.

Brock’s blood runs cold, and he tries to pull away, but the bindings hold him in place. The first one slaps his face with his cock with an unhappy grunt after it slips out of his mouth again. The hands of the fourth one clench around his hips, stilling them. Brock wants to tell them Rollins would never allow this, but he doesn’t manage; the moment he opens his mouth again, the first one’s cock fills it.

The third one joins the second one by Brock’s side, and he loses the sight of him. He can hear them mutter things like, ‘here’, ‘a little to the left’, ‘but not too deep, I don’t wanna fuck his guts’. He can feel the tip of the knife travel up and down his side, making his heart race and his body shake. Finally, it digs in.

He doesn’t feel it at first, and thinks they resigned; that they just wanted to scare him. Then it registers; the sharp pain in his side, and the wetness flowing down his side and pooling between his stomach and the bench. He tries to yell, but it’s muffled. The first one moans as he does. He shakes and jerks as the knife is turned, pushing and cutting his flesh to form a hole.

The first thrust of a dick feels even worse.

Brock has been through a lot of different pain in his life, but this one is comparable to nothing. It’s worse than being stabbed or shot. Worse than a surgery. Fuck, worse than his bones being crushed. It feels like somebody’s fucking the life out of him. It’s so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He loses all the control he still had over his body and—without even realizing it at first—bites down.

He takes a moment to realize why the first one is screaming like a little girl. When he does, he relaxes his jaw. The first one retracts, moaning and crying, and Brock notices blood around his shaft. 

He should be scared. Biting means losing a limb. But he’s oddly apathetic about it. As he slumps forward, his head swimming and the pain fading, he realizes that ‘fucking the life out of him’ is quite accurate. He blacks out for a moment, and when he comes to, there’s another dick fucking his face. Its owner squeezes his jaw joints to keep his mouth open. His vision is swimming, but when he finally focuses his gaze on the man in front of him, he notices it’s an entirely different team. He feels throbbing pain in his side, but at least no one is fucking his new hole anymore.

Swallowing another cum shot makes him sick. He can’t tell how many are filling his stomach; he supposes he has been unconscious for a part of it. A new erection replaces the last one. The next thing Brock knows, he’s choking on vomit.

For the next while he’s conscious, no one’s touching him. A few agents that pass by hoot and whistle at him, but don’t stop on their way. The reek of the vomit right below his face makes him sick again, and he throws up more. He feels a little better afterwards, and the vomit—and the cum dripping off him, Brock supposes—is soon dealt with by a janitor. He doesn’t look at Brock as he mops the floor, and Brock lets himself rest.

The next time he’s awake, he’s being unstrapped from the bench. He whines when he moves his numb limbs that were stuck in the same position for hours. His hands flame up again after the blood reaches them. He can’t walk, but the team that’s unstrapped him take it under consideration. They carry him, one guy for each limb. Brock’s too weak to even try to recognize them.

They fold him and push inside the crate. Brock rests his face against the bars and lets himself breathe. 

He’s dizzy, but he looks himself over. He’s covered in cum and blood. The wound is still leaking. Brock finds it a little surprising that no one thought to do anything about it. Maybe it isn’t that deep, and he’s so weak for another reason. 

He jolts when he hears a bang. When he looks through the bars, he realizes someone just dropped a bowl in front of his crate.

“Dinner,” Woods says happily. He crouches down. Brock would see his face if he looked up, but it feels like too much work right now.

He hears a can open, and something brown falls into the bowl with a wet thump. Dog food. One of the better things he eats here. Normally, he’d squeeze his hand through the bars, grab a bite and eat. But now, he can’t even move his pinky.

Woods stands up. “You don’t wanna eat? Fine. Suit yourself.” 

He kicks the bowl away. Brock watches the dog food spray around on the floor. 

Woods leaves. The blood is still flowing. Brock thinks there’s a good chance he will die here.

Better here than strapped to the fuck bench.

**Author's Note:**

> I did it. I broke the ~~cutie~~ badass.


End file.
